


Imprints and Thumbprints

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-08 03:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19098466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: The Administrator lives a life of monotonous routine until someone from his forgotten past catches up with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get moblie to do tags right so I'll add them later.

The tiny, ornate clock on the desk and the oddly normal on the wall both sound the shift change bell at precisely two in the morning every morning, but it still manages to catch the Administrator by surprise almost every time.

Shift changes are fluid, ballet-like transformations they leave every post unattended for only five seconds, long enough for Administrator (or Admin, as he's taken to shortening the rather cumbersome title cum name.) to snap out of his daze and get up in time for another, equally tetchy young man with several eyebrow piercings to take his place. He rather likes the third one; the shiny green of the ring catches his eye and makes his transition out of his seat stutter. Every time.

But the end shifters and the start shifters are on entirely different wavelengths. There's work to be done, and it's against policy to loiter around and distract people from their duties. Some dare ("dare" as if the administrative staff is even on any of the  _ real  _ mercenaries' radar) to cross the city and go to the Continental for a drink in the bar, and still others appear to have some semblance of a social life, so disconnected from their work that they're practically different people by the time they cross the threshold of the administrative building.

Admin just returns to the flats. He takes the train with a small group of fellow antisocial staff members; their work clothes and piercings tend to ward off most of the city at large, though a nifty little nine millimeter he was issued day one does well to deter the rest.

Some of them go as far as waving as they exit the train, sharing a brief few seconds of socialization before retreating to solitude. Even in this world, where his outsider status matches so many people not unlike himself, he still feels like the one looking in from behind frosted glass.

So instead of having any sort of life he's going home alone to enjoy the loose leaf tea he picked up at the corner store during his lunch hour.

Or he would if he could lose this damn tail.

It's nearing three in the morning with hardly a soul on the sidewalk aside from Admin. A discreetly dressed person would have difficulty blending in; the fact that this man thinks bright green is subtle is another matter entirely. Windows keep giving him tiny glances of a garish suit coat, glinting the same shade as the piercing, but not near as pleasant to see in his periphery.

There are several twenty-four hours locations open on the way to the flats, but none of them crowded enough to slip away. He could always just kill him, the weight of his gun tugs at the right side of his belt with each step, but open air kills are messy and rife with paperwork for non-members to complete.

So he thumbprints his way into The Flats and turns to flaunt his safety, but instead of frustration through bulletproof glass he finds the green man, a head taller than himself, hair limp and glasses askew, and most definitely on the same side of the door as Admin.

"How did you do that?"

"Fingerprint scans. It's cute," the green man says as he tears off a latex glove, "unfortunately they're not that difficult to trick. Hardly a puzzle worth my time-woah there," his hands fly up in surrender, "let's dial it down."

Admin clicks the safety of his gun off. He passed certification with flying colors; a natural, his teacher said. She'll be proud to know his first real life experience hasn't scared the knowledge right out of him.

"The Flats are consecrated ground," he explains as he advances the man towards the doors, "but there's a self defense clause in place to deal with miscreants such as yourself. I'd hate to have to enact it tonight, so I suggest you go back the way you came."

"Let's not be hasty," he pleads. "I'm not the maligned missionary you're making me."

"You're-?" He strengthens his grip on his gun, "don't try to distract me. You were following me. Sounds maligned from my point of view."

"You're misinformed."

"And you're trespassing." He gestures the gun at the door. "What are you supposed to be, anyway? You're a bit too tall to be a leprechaun, but I suppose I've seen stranger characters in this line of work. Don't answer that!" He snaps, and the man's mouth closes so fast his teeth click. "We are not here to make small talk."

"Just, please, I'm a snapshot in the mind-"

"What are- is that a riddle?" He falters for just a second, and that's all it takes for the man to lunge and knock the gun from his hands. "Stay back!"

"It's a memory," he insists, "the answer is memory. Which," he laughs, "my, you must not have them. Of course."

"Who told you that? Who are you?" Admin takes a few steps towards the elevators. There's a knife in the wall, just between the doors and the track, if he can stall long enough, "why are you following me?"

"Ed Nygma, also known as the Riddler," he does a little flourish and offers his hand, "but, nevermind that, because more importantly, Ozzie I know you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowwowwow thank you all so much I had no idea this would get as much traffic as it has. I have a vague plan for the overall fic but not all the individual parts so updates will be sporadic.

Admin (none of this Ozzie business because he's not in the mood to let some false prophet of his past jerk him around tonight) pulls his electric kettle from its base and pours the near boiling water over the strainer of loose leaf tea until his teapot is two-thirds full. He does all this while managing strict eye contact with this Mr Nygma fellow, an impressive feat if the man would stop looking like he's eaten something half rotten. It's making him sick to his stomach.

He slams the kettle back into place. "Just what are you so repulsed by, exactly?"

"I-" Nygma gulps around a lie, no doubt, before offering Admin another one, "I thought that was makeup."

"Wh-" Admin wipes a hand on his face and it comes back clean, "what, you mean this?" He points to his left eye. "You think I have the time to do this every morning?"

"Your shift begins at two."

"You," he slaps a hand on the counter, "how long have you been following me?"

"A week."

"One week," he laughs through the discomfort of his stomach bottoming out somewhere around his knees, "Jesus. Are you joking? I think I'd have noticed a glittery green bean following me."

"Except you didn't," Nygma eyes the tea set Admin's laid out on a platter he received after one year of exemplary work. "Is one of those mine?"

"I believe in proper etiquette when hosting." Not that he's ever gotten the chance to put it into practice. He dunks the little brass tea strainer into the pot and flips his sand timer. He places it in the center of his two-person table by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the bustling city below and sits across from his unwelcome guest. "Since you're claiming to have tailed me for a week why don't you prove it? We have about," he tips the sand timer towards him, "two minutes."

"I know you went to that cute little tea shop by your work. Sparrows, if I'm not mistaken."

"Not convinced." He only went today. Nygma's fishing for details, and maybe a less careful target would have given them to him. "Why don't you try again?"

Nygma's childish pouting only makes Admin more smug, until he starts making his blood run cold. "Monday morning before your shift, ten o'clock sharp, you had an appointment. You were shifty, kept looking over your shoulder, although clearly not in my direction." He folds his hands together on the table top; Admin scoots back in his chair. "It was with a neurologist. After a bit of research I was able to determine her area of expertise. Memories, or more accurately the loss of them." He chuckles to himself. "You know, I had anticipated your visit to have a more sinister connotation, but after tonight," he shrugs, "it's almost a pity to know you just have garden variety amnesia."

"Okay," okay? He's not okay. Thousands of people and layers upon layers of security and this, this one man managed to circumvent them all and land himself a spot at Admin's table virtually undetected. "Fine, I suppose you at least happened to run into me on Monday."

"It explains so much," Nygma marvels.

"Just how do you think you knew me?"

"We were," Nygma's tongue clicks as he mulls his answer, "acquainted. Occasional partners." He goes for a weapon and Admin grabs the closest blunt object, the timer, but Nygma pulls his hand back out of his breast pocket and sets a folded piece of paper between them. Admin keeps a tight grip on the timer as he unfolds it, but the contents startle the fight right out of him.

A grainy, black and white photo of a man with an old fashioned tail suit and cane in one hand; the other is comfortably gripping a large pistol. There's a wicked grin directed somewhere outside the image, but even with the man in profile Admin finds himself touching his nose to try and compare the shape.

"Impressive," he says flippantly, "but really, you can't expect me to believe you can bypass security but photo manipulation is out of the question."

Nygma snatches the paper back so fast the edge catches Admin's finger and gives him a nasty paper cut. Admin shoves the stinging digit into his mouth to spare his home of the potential stain; Nygma's remorse is so palpable it would be appreciated if it wasn't an act.

"Bandages," he says, rushing off to booby trap some unseen part of Admin's flat. It's a clever orchestration if a bit overproduced. He followed Admin for a week, surely he took photos as well. Admin stares down at the spot where the photo had been, but his recall is nearly as shoddy as his long term memory. He just sees the wild grin; his mouth contorts in a way that doesn't manage to replicate the shape.

The tea's long oversteeped. Admin pours two cups one-handed and adds a single cube of sugar to his own. Nygma's trailing his way back to the table with a handful of first aid essentials just as Admin finishes stirring.

"Your antibiotic ointment is expired."

"I don't make a habit of getting injured," he snaps. He accepts the band-aid, the only thing definitely tamper free, and gets up to wash his hands.

Nygma smiles down at the undoctored cup of tea; his only hesitation is to blow on the steaming surface before taking a sip.

The man's self preservation is a frustrating dichotomy. Admin's kicking himself for not putting something in the cup. Who goes to the trouble of carefully, and soundlessly, infiltrating The Flats and then drinks tea without waiting for the maker to drink first?

He contemplates trying to with some sort of confection as the vehicle. If Nygma's survival skills don't show themselves it's definitely viable. He drops the wrappings from his bandage into the waste bin under his sink and considers doing the same to Nygma, either over the edge of his balcony or on the Continental's front steps. The former holds a certain satisfaction but the latter may come with commendation. It's certainly worth exploring his options.

"Is this Jasmine?"

"Oolong," Admin snits. He slides the package out of view so the word 'jasmine' is obscured by his kettle. "Let's say I'd like to entertain this little idea of yours that I'm some long lost companion of yours." He sits on the edge of his seat. "It took you a week to work up the nerve to confront me. Doesn't seem like you were all that certain."

"You're," he hides his pause behind a sip, "not identical. For one thing you're far more punctual."

"Punctual. Is that a pun?"

Nygma smirks, but his expression settles like his voice, low and steady and warm. "He also liked to sleep late. Second shift caters to that."

"Well, it's a uniform."

"I'd gathered?" Nygma swirls his tea. "The alternative that so many people with the same style congregating in such a way was," he hums, "unlikely." He takes a drink, exclaims through the mouthful, and grimaces. "Too fast. I am curious as to what sort of business enforces such a policy. Seems like an odd choice."

"One that would chew you up and leave you in a gutter." Admin raises his cup and gently clinks it against Nygma's. "Whatever backwater town you crawled up out of couldn't have prepared you for this."

"Illegal, right?" Nygma scoffs. "We weren't exactly good Samaritans. A mask, a secret, a forbidden trinket-"

"You really need to stop with the riddles."

Nygma exhales noisily. "You never really liked them before either. Occasionally," he drifts off somewhere, a memory, and shakes his head to clear it, "they weren't really your thing."

"Well, they still aren't." He sits back in his chair and mulls things over with a mouthful of too strong tea. "I never said I believe you."

"You will." It's the surety that makes Admin sputter out a laugh; Nygma studies him intently, but without malice. "You'll find me very persistent."

"And you'll find me exhausted," Admin says. He drains the last of his tea and the sugary sludge that settled at the bottom. "I do genuinely think you'd manage to get yourself killed in this city, but that's your prerogative."

"I was going to request you extend your hospitality into the morning hours."

"Fine." Admin's anything but, but keeping Nygma within shooting distance is probably safer than unleashing him on the city. "Feel free to use my shower. In fact I recommend it."

He pretends not to hear Nygma's gratitude as he strides to his bedroom. Plying for a one bedroom instead of the standard studio had felt extravagant given the size of the floor plan, but now he's thankful for the lock as it snicks into place.

_ I'll never fall asleep _ , he thinks even as the edges of unconsciousness start to take hold.


	3. Chapter 3

He has the dream again.

Unfamiliar scenes paralyze him with their vibrant Technicolor, but by the time he's semi cognizant they've faded to grayscale. Nothing sticks enough to follow him into full consciousness, but the experience never fails to leave him with a cramping stomach. He puts a hand over his birthmark, brushing his thumb over the bottom of his sternum, and he breathes deep to savor the smells of breakfast wafting in from under his door.

Admin snaps up from bed and barrels over to the door separating him and the (admittedly fragrant) mystery that is the main space of his apartment. There’s a point about halfway through unlocking where the bolt always sticks, and it makes a horrible little shriek as he forces it open. His element of surprise destroyed, he takes a breath to prepare for whatever is lurking behind the door.

He wasn’t prepared for Nygma to be standing at his burners frying up some eggs to go with the scones he’s already set on a serving platter in the middle of the table. Nor was he ready for there to be bacon, and a glass of pulpy orange juice either. Admin didn’t even have bacon in his fridge.

“Ah,” Nygma pivots on one heel and takes the pan of eggs with him, “I wasn’t sure when you’d be up.”

“What is this?” Admin rubs the sleep from his eyes, but the scene is still there when he opens them again.

"Breakfast." He shepherds the eggs onto another platter, the one he got when he was first installed as Administrator. The girls pooled together for that one, and he hardly uses it for fear of chipping the recreation of his first tattoo in the center. "Your work isn't for another few hours-"

"I have an appointment," he rushes out. Clearly this gambling man is all about the long con. Convince Admin he's trusting by drinking the tea, and in return he's supposed to let his guard down and eat food that's been prepared behind closed doors. No thank you. (Even if it does smell delicious.) "I'm nearly late, actually," he says with confidence though his kitchen contains no clock on the east wall, or any wall for that matter. The microwave's been blinking 12:00 since be first plugged it in years ago. "Sorry." He's not. "I have to get ready."

"Oh, well," Nygma's voice follows him back into the bedroom, growing fainter as he retreats into his personal bathroom, "I can always prepare some to go!"

So he can drop dead in the middle of the city? "No thank you!"

He turns on the tap to drown out the man's inane ramblings about breakfast and energy; he's already running on empty, and his stomach won't stop having a fit. Even if he'd made the food himself he doubts he could manage to eat without feeling sick.

He washes his face and dresses in a tartan patterned waistcoat and slacks that are so dark the pattern is lost in poor lighting. He pairs it with a crisp white shirt, long sleeves, with the cuffs rolls twice to avoid ink stains. His hair is going to look awful by the time end shift rolls around but it'll have to do. He can't stand to stay here any longer.

"I won't be back until after my shift," he says as he breezes by. Nygma's eating alone at the table; he's the poster child of unearned melancholy. "I'm not going to bother demanding you leave considering, but if it's not too much trouble do try to avoid doing any permanent damage to my home. But if you must," he shrugs, "maybe do me the favor of being trapped inside as the building burns down."

-

Admin walks in a daze for hours in the quarter mile circle surrounding the Administration building. At some point he must have bought something to eat because he finds a paper wrapper in his pocket, but he has no recollection of the action let alone what it must have been. He only knows whatever it was it's sitting in his stomach like a rock.

He files into the waiting room ten minutes early, but he's still the last of the second shifters to arrive for the day's work. A few of the ladies smile in his direction; the girl that works the switchboard silently offers up a tin of homemade marzipan. He takes one without any intention of eating it, but he finds himself taking a bite while under her intense yet polite stare.

He's sure it isn't supposed to be chalky, but he can't be certain. Admin smiles at her until she moves on to her next victim so he can toss the rest in the nearest waste bin.

Everyone lines up with Admin front and center when sixty seconds remain before their shift, and they're striding with confidence and purpose to their respective places at twenty. At least, everyone else seems to be. Admin's meek shuffle is far from admirable.

At five seconds he taps the shoulder of the first shift administrator and they begin their seamless transition, but he missteps and the rarely used stool comes crashing to the floor. Everything stops. Everyone looks. Admin's ears burn with embarrassment that spreads down to his chest; he rights the stool and takes his place five seconds late.

Time resumes, people turn away from his blunder and to their own duties. The runner brings him a stack of folders in need of a stamp or two. His hand shakes so badly it smears the ink round the edges.

The marzipan didn't make him sick as much as the day itself already has; Admin keeps a steady hand on the stool until he's seated fully. He presses the silent alert under his desk, code green, and breathes very carefully through his nose until the auxiliary administrator taps his shoulder. Their transition is considerably more smooth.

He doesn't bother to expend vital non-expelative energy on maintaining his carefully crafted image. Just beyond waiting is the staff lounge, another ten steps beyond that is a single stall bathroom, and it's here that Admin finds himself bent over, praying to the porcelain God as he empties his stomach of the marzipan morsel and… a pretzel? Something bready, and not at all pleasant seeing a second time.

He should have put in for time off, but short notice requires justification, and he can't just write 'mystery man claiming to be of my past may be trying to kill me' when he isn't in services. There'll be an inquiry a mile long, possible repercussions from a simple slap on the wrist to a stint with the weekenders. No thank you.

Auxiliary will handle things for another twenty minutes no questions asked. Admin returns the bathroom to its previous state and uses the last fifteen minutes to nurse a bottle of ginger ale. He looks out the wide window at the city below and takes tentative sips until his stomach settles properly.

He fumbles around with his pockets until he finds the receipt for the- ugh, a churro for some reason- and tears it into a square shape. During the last few minutes of his unplanned break he makes meticulous folds until he's turned the offending paper into a little, rough edged, origami penguin. He keeps it in his pocket the rest of his shift.

-

Admin turns the stress of the rest of his shift into righteous fury towards his unwanted houseguest, but it deflates when he finds the man curled up asleep on the chaise portion of his sofa. He could have had the decency to at least appear menacing during the act, but if anyone can manage intimidation while unconscious it's definitely not Nygma.

He's been rooting through Admin's things during the day, evidenced by the presence of his mail key atop a stack of letters. Nygma either went through the trouble of resealing each letter or he didn't bother to read them; Admin isn't sure which feels more likely but he does know which makes him angrier.

It's immaterial, because the largest of the three envelopes (underneath a pay statement and his appointment schedule for next month) is from the High Table sanctioned tattoo artist. He tears into it and lays the sketches out on his table, examining each design for his next piece of body art.

"Lovely," he whispers, and Nygma stirs. Admin gathers up the drawings and squirrels away into his bedroom to avoid the confrontation.

He spreads them out again on top of his bed and picks up the design he likes the best, and also happens to be the one he played the biggest part during his consolation. An origami penguin, pitch black and simple but with an ombre effect around its little geometric stomach going from black to purple to an off-white/creme, which will be the skin of his right ankle.

There's a clatter behind the door. Admin scoops up the drawings and returns them to their (slightly maimed) envelope. He pops the false side off his bed frame and pulls out a shoebox from his first pair of shiny oxfords and adds the little receipt penguin to his collection and closes the box, then he puts the envelope on top and shoves them back until it just barely contacts the box with the flashy purple suit he was wearing when he first turned up on the Continental's front steps.

 


	4. Chapter 4

"I think you should, no, that's stupid." Admin squirts a quarter sized dollop of shower gel onto his washcloth and works it into an angry lather. "It's my damn apartment. I'm not  _ thinking  _ anything. I'm demanding."

He's on the third repeat of a five minute ambient song meant to aid in relaxation during his showers. Instead it's only served to remind him that time continues to pass and, eventually, he's going to need to put these practice arguments to the test.

The real hell of it is if Admin has a problem good old 9 millimeter is usually there to solve it, but he's let this go on too long to not figure out just what is so important to bring Nygma all the way here if not to just kill Admin outright.

He dresses in his tweed/navy shirt outfit from Monday, fresh from the dry cleaners and smelling of clean linen and a hint of vanilla. Personal favorite. Admin puffs out his chest, ready to give Nygma a real licking, and he storms from his bedroom.

Which was unimpeded by the sticky, oftentimes troublesome deadbolt.

The reality doesn't set in until he's face to face with his unwanted guest that had easy access to his bedroom all night.

"I see," Admin says to himself. Nygma eyes him curiously and takes a bite of what appears to be leftovers from yesterday morning. He shakes his head to clear away the confusion. He has a squatter to evict. "You'll be thrilled to hear I've decided you're not planning to kill me."

"Have you now?"

"Yes," Admin says lightly. He opens up the left drawer on his narrow desk by the pantry and thumbs through a stack of gold embossed, thick, creamy cardstock until he finds a small bundle of vouchers for the Continental. He pockets them. "Although I do think your motivation is nefarious in nature. I was supposedly some criminal?" Nygma nods. "Well, then if your boss, or you for that matter, is angling for me to remember some safe code or secret location for my fictional riches I'm afraid you're out of luck."

"I certainly wouldn't mind," Nygma mutters, "but that's not necessarily accurate."

"Hey, I'm not faulting you." A job is a job. Admin's not throwing stones in this glass house.

"I need to know why you're  _ here _ ," Nygma insists. "It doesn't make  _ sense _ ."

“I never needed to know,” he says, shrugging in the face of Nygma’s confusion. “I’m here now. I just don’t see the value in knowing why.”

“You don’t care,” Nygma repeats. For Nygma’s sake he hums in the affirmative while selecting a particular loose leaf blend. Let the man go on his wild goose chase. Admin directs his energy on more productive things, like making a cup of tea. “You aren’t curious?”

“Certainly not as much as you.” He adds two sugar cubes to the bottom of a stainless steel thermos and pours the hot, freshly steeped tea in on top of them. “Now, I need to run out quick, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t set fire to my apartment before I get back.” (“Why are you so convinced I’m going to set fires?”) “I’d take the time to pack up anything you might have dragged in here when I wasn’t looking, because you’re not spending another night here.”

“You don’t want to know why you make them?” Nygma’s question is so pointed, so oddly specific yet frustratingly vague, that it stops Admin in his tracks before his hand can reach the door handle.

“Make what?” he asks with a casual inflection covering up the rising dread.

“I found the penguins, Ozzie.”

“You had no right-!” he whirls around so fast tea sloshes out the mouthpiece and onto his hardwood floors- “that isn’t even my  _ name _ -!” He sees himself pulling his gun, or dumping the hot tea onto Nygma’s lap; he does neither of these very enticing things. He hardly even breathes for a full minute. “I changed my mind,” he says calmly. “Get over here.”

Nygma side-eyes the window; as dissatisfying as it would be to not be this man’s cause of death watching him try to jump from the fire escape free window to safety does have an appeal. “I don’t think I want to.”

“Get. Over. Here. Now. Please.” The speed with which Nygma responds suggests either Admin wielded great power over him, or he’s a giant pushover the second he feels threatened. He neglects to clear his plate, but Admin is going to have to deep clean the apartment to get the grimy feeling of outsider off his furniture; one more object to clean, or possibly just replace, is a drop in the ocean. “I don’t have to remind you just close I was to killing you, and I’m not in services. I’d keep your hands to yourself if you value keeping them.”

-

Administration doesn’t use the front desk of the Continental; the uniform tends to clash with the opulent elegance of the foyer, and very rarely does one of the High Table’s employees use actual coinage to pay for services.

But Nygma’s rubbernecking the whole two mile walk; twice Admin has to grab the back of his suit coat to steer him in the right direction (which, unfortunately, isn’t traffic). Once they cross the threshold and Nygma is safe on a technicality Admin nudges him towards a plush set of lounge chairs off the main path leading to reception.

“You’re going to wait here while I get you squared away.” He shoves him into the chair and smiles down at him mirthlessly. “Don’t let outward appearances mislead you. Everyone here could kill you faster than you could blink.”

Nygma’s marvelling at the tall ceiling, the ornate decorations, the hotel as a whole, meaning he’s doing a lot less cowering in fear and a lot more gawking. He should have paid someone to shoot their target right in front of the man. Nothing puts the fear of god in somebody like stray arterial spray. “Quite the high end hotel you’ve brought me.”

“I have vouchers,” he says. He produces one from his pocket and holds it just out of arm’s reach. “Perk of working for the people in charge, with the added bonus of getting you out of my hair.”

Nygma’s expression softens. “You’re letting me use them?”

Admin’s eye twitches. “You’re so hellbent on solving things that aren’t asking to be, so I thought I’d get you out of my hair and somewhere where you can shrivel up and die before you make it through all the resources at your disposal. You think public archives are vast and unending? Try the Continental’s. Your head may just explode.”

Nygma looks dangerously close to  _ thanking  _ him, so Admin pivots on his heel and strides over to the reception counter once the line has thinned to a single, well armed young man with what appears to be a parrot. Admin doesn’t pretend to understand those individuals in services.

“Welcome to the Continental,” Charon greets him warmly.

“I meant to use the side entrance,” Admin offers as an apology. Even without odd protocols he feels like a stain on a nice fur coat.

“Administration is always welcome,” Charon assures him. “Though I do have to ask about the bedraggled gentleman that accompanied you into the lobby.”

“An unexpected guest,” he sighs, “I can’t vouch for him personally, though from what I’ve seen I’d call him a nuisance, but otherwise harmless. I’m looking to get him out of my apartment, and he’s looking for archive access.”

“Public, or authorized?”

“Public,” Admin’s let him delve deep enough for one lifetime. “I’m sure that will keep him busy.”

“As long as he follows the rules,” Charon hazards, and Admin nods, “then he is welcome. Now, as a matter of payment.”

“Right here,” Admin slides the voucher across the counter and watches Charon inspect it briefly before he dips the very edge into a candle flame. They both watch it turn to ash, and a single room key is placed in the center of his palm for room 171.

“Be sure to pass on my greeting,” Charon says, “and welcome him to the Continental. Should he require any services, please send him to the front desk to see me.”

“Of course.”

Nygma’s drifted from the chair to the doorway leading to the lounge. Admin finds himself touching his elbow after he’s already finished the act, and he slaps the key into Nygma’s unsuspecting hand to cover up what could be mistaken as an overly familiar gesture.

“Concierge will direct you to archives,” he jerks his chin over one shoulder to indicate Charon at the front desk. “You’ll be staying here,” he points to the ornate tag on the key, “and more importantly out of my hair. My treat.”

“You weren’t saving them for anyone?”

“No, because it’s become painfully clear that I don’t have any friends.” And he is in no way offering up the position to  _ him _ . “Don’t come back to my apartment. If you’re so insistent on showing me whatever nonsense you’ve dug up from the history books wait until the voucher runs out. I don’t want to even think about you before then.”


End file.
